


Hurt Me

by shytrash



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Angst, But without a lot of comfort, Canonical Character Death, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Mary Morstan, References to Depression, Sad, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shytrash/pseuds/shytrash
Summary: It was a vicious cycle, the addiction to pain. It made him do things he’s ashamed to vocalise, being a well-off male in his late thirties, with a hefty list of problems already, it wasn’t something anyone talked to him about since nobody knew. Nobody would ever know.Everyone knows about his past drug use and stints in rehab, but nobody knows about the other ways he tries to unwind and find some sort of release.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

It was like an experiment to him. Calculated, each movement thought out and planned to ensure accuracy and provide the desired results - obviously. Unlike all of his other experiments, he doesn’t write down the hypothesis or the conclusion of his findings. No, this is an experiment that yields _feelings_ as a result. Or lack of, it depends on the mindset when he starts. One singular cut, at the right depth, is usually enough to satisfy the need within Sherlock. Yet, this time, it isn’t. He’s sitting in the bathroom attached to his bedroom and he’s staring at the bloody marks on his arms. Plural. Multiple marks. They’re all at the same depth and length, he likes the way it looks when they’re neat and spaced out evenly as well, but instead of one like every other time, there are five fresh wounds staring at him. His blood runs in a thin line steadily from each cut. 

There are drops on the floor now too. It looks so vivid against the white marble beneath his feet. He feels like he’s been sedated almost, movements slow and borderline sluggish. His brain is still taking in the rush of dopamine and for the first time in a while, he feels like the normal Sherlock. _The_ Sherlock Holmes that can roll down his sleeves and go and solve a murder. Or sit on the couch and enjoy the uncomfortable reminder of what’s hiding under his sleeves each time he moves. It’s easy to hide this secret from John since he’s working so much to distract himself from everything that was Mary. Between that and his rapidly growing child, his doctor doesn’t have time to notice the subtle winces whenever he twists his arms a certain way. _It’s better this way,_ Sherlock thinks to himself as he begins to clean up the mess. Slowly the cuts are slowing down and he thinks it’s time to shower once the floor has been cleaned up. Hide all of the evidence away from any prying eyes that wander in here. 

He chooses to do this in his own bathroom simply because nobody else comes in here. If they do he’s always placed his razors in a good hiding spot, not even Lestrade has found them in one of his fake drug busts. His equipment is kept in a small wooden box, tucked underneath a loose tile that nobody has noticed is damaged yet. Of course, he’s already planned to tell people the box used to house cocaine and the razors were simply to cut it up finer if he was doing lines. Not his favourite way to ingest the drug, although he can’t see anyone pulling him up on that. When he assesses the damage done to himself he’s more than satisfied. Part of him is almost alarmed at how easy it was to break his one rule of a singular cut. The last few days have been trying and his inner emotions are beginning to twist his thoughts to nothing but negativity and eventually it takes a toll. He was feeling unbalanced and unfocused, so he made sure he’ll be able to focus for a few more days now. 

  
  


-

  
  


The shower burns the wounds and he enjoys the sensation a little bit too much, although it’s all part of the process, he tells himself. He can hear John and Rosie walking through the door and calling out a hello to him, so he guesses it’s time to leave the comfort of the shower. There’s a bandage waiting for him on the edge of the sink - part of his routine with fresh cuts. It’s a precaution to make sure there’s no leakage through his shirts, even though he sticks to dark shirts when this happens. John thinks he loves the purple shirt for other reasons. It’s simply convenient in his darkest moments like this. Sherlock knows what he’s doing isn’t helping him - it’s pushing him further into the black hole he feels will swallow him one day soon. He can’t help it now, though. It’s a tool he’s relied on for _years_ before the drugs were his main escape from this side of himself. The days have blurred together in a haze of crushing depression and anxiety since Mary’s death. 221B hasn’t felt the same and his relationship with John has been so up and down that it gives the detective a headache. 

It’s never been easy to vocalise his emotions - Mycroft has instilled that sentiment is not an advantage and Sherlock took that and portrayed himself as an emotionless machine. Many call him a _freak_ and it does hurt sometimes. He always replies with an embarrassing or crude deduction of them and that usually shuts them up rather quickly or it lands him with a black eye or almost broken nose. That pain he can secretly enjoy and outwardly complain about. He’d take the weak drugs his doctor would offer him and he’d take his time recovering. It was a vicious cycle, the addiction to pain. It made him do things he’s ashamed to vocalise, being a well-off male in his late thirties, with a list of problems already, it wasn’t something anyone talked to him about since nobody knew. Nobody would ever know. He couldn’t handle having to be lectured on how cutting himself is _bad_ and he has to see someone and take mind-numbing drugs to fix whatever is wrong with him. 

That’s why he wraps his bandages when he’s out of the shower and he dresses in a dark and slightly loose cotton t-shirt and a silk robe paired with pyjama pants, his robe acting as a double layer of protection while his arm is still red raw and angry. He’ll act natural when he walks out of his bedroom. There will be a cup of tea prepared for both him and John while Rosie sits between them in her highchair. It’ll be like every other afternoon and no one will notice the way he’ll keep his arm below the table, out of sight and out of mind. His doctor is smarter than he lets the other man believe, it’s clear he’s picked up a few deduction tricks during their time together. It’s hard to pick up the completely unexpected when the signs are basically non-existent to anyone - even those around him that know him. He’s relying on that fact that this isn’t something John could see or predict him partaking in, so he’ll never get caught if he’s smart. That’s what he keeps telling himself as he walks out of his bedroom door, cuts stinging with his every movement and Sherlock feels totally at ease with the pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever suddenly get the need to write and can't stop until the chapter is finished?   
> well, that's what happened here. there may be another one or two, depending on how it's  
> all recieved.   
> thanks for reading

Nobody suspects anything. Those cuts were barely recovered before the need hit him again, it’s easy to fall into when he isn’t getting caught and he has become so dependent on it he can’t go without it. He feels like an addict in need of another fix and he can’t decide if it’s better or worse than the drugs. Surely it’s better, right? He isn’t high out of his mind, unable to do anything like he is when he’s taken too much heroin. There isn’t a risk of overdosing - just a small risk of cutting the wrong area and bleeding out. Sherlock’s smart though and he knows the human body. If he wanted to kill himself, which he won’t deny wanting to sometimes, he would be dead right now. This isn’t about ending it all, it’s about control. He needs control over his emotions because nothing else seems to help. It’s hard having to feel when he wants to be an emotionless robot. The need for control is growing by the day and it’s been so easy to forget about the stupid one cut rule now. 

Of course, he should’ve known he’d grow a tolerance, almost. Maybe he’s just making excuses to cut himself more, but he isn’t going to look too far into it. He’s rationalized it by applying the same logic as drugs, seeing as this is an addiction too, right? Over time, drug addicts build a tolerance and need larger amounts of their drug of choice to feel the same high as the first few times. He needs to hurt himself more to cope with being the reason Mary’s dead, another deep wound for John after he’d put him through The Fall. The guilt was fucking crippling, suffocating during the night when all he can do is lay awake and think about it. He can see the blood on his hands, on her shirt, on the floor. John’s crying and sobbing and Sherlock is standing there looking between the blood on him and Mary’s dead body and _ he caused this, didn’t he? _ He caused it with his arrogance and cockiness. Now John is devastated, they walk on eggshells around each other and haven’t spoken very much since that night, unless it’s about Rosie. There isn’t any kindness in his doctor’s eyes when they look at each other anymore. Sherlock can’t stand to look at him anymore, now. 

This time he’s sitting in his bathtub, t-shirt abandoned on his floor but his pants were still on. The tub was cold against his bare feet but since he hadn’t left the flat he didn’t bother with shoes in the first place. He was bleeding, unsurprisingly, yet he hadn’t cut the same place as all the other times. On his chest was a row of still bleeding wounds, down the side of his ribcage. Hadn’t even counted them all yet, he had simply sat down, picked up the razor and cut until he felt better. Dangerous territory here, he knows, but he  _ needed  _ this. Today was a bad day, an almost ringing dealer and relapsing kind of day. John was giving him the cold shoulder this morning. Although it was well and truly deserved it was killing him and Sherlock had asked if he wanted a cup of tea around noon. For some reason it didn’t sit well with his flatmate. The detective watched as his doctor got up, back turned and hands in tight fists that gave away how angry he was at that moment. Sherlock recoiled instantly, an apology on his lips straight away but it was too late, the damage was done and John had turned and walked out the flat with a simple  _ “I'm staying at Molly’s tonight”.  _

It wasn’t John’s fault, really, it wasn’t. Grief was a rollercoaster and the detective knew that fact very well. Once his very own bolthole, Molly’s home had become a sanctuary for John and Rosie too. It was a warm and comfortable environment that felt like home when you walked in so it was understandable that’s where John would flee to, as well as the fact that Rosie was already there. She stayed there whenever John was working too much or having a bad day, or if Mrs. Hudson was unavailable. Sometimes the one year old was a bit much for her and she was never available after her late afternoon recreational habit. It was made clear she couldn’t ever be left in Sherlock’s care, given that he only brings danger and destruction to those around him. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t leave his flat and doesn’t take on cases anymore. If he doesn’t do the dangerous case work and stops with the arrogance there wouldn’t be any more danger for anyone. It’s been a hard week fortnight without work and maybe that’s what is making this need so much more intense. 

Part of him feels like he’s taken a dose of morphine, or maybe it’s the blood loss, but he lets himself enjoy it. He wishes he had morphine or  _ any  _ drug right now to make this moment even more intense. It was blissful. Home alone, in his bathroom with two rows of eight cuts on his side. They weren’t too deep, just deep enough to bleed in a slow yet steady stream. By his estimations they’ll start to clot and stop bleeding soon. There were no plans to move for a while anyway, no where that Sherlock needed to be. In here, locked in his bathroom and vulnerable, he can let a few tears roll down his cheeks. He’s overwhelmed with what’s happening, how he’s spinning out of control and he misses Mary so much, misses his relationship with John before all of this even fucking  _ more _ . He’d bring Mary back in a heartbeat if it meant that John was happy with him again, he can’t handle this with him. Not John. 

There’s feelings for John that run deeper than friendship and Sherlock doesn’t know what he’d do without him. The chance that this could end with their relationship being deemed unrepairable seems to grow each passing week. Now look at what he’s gotten himself into. He’s paranoid his every move in front of John will trigger something and he only feels like he can relax after he’s hurt himself. When there’s fresh cuts he can take advantage of pushing into them when he feels like John’s angry at him and he can enjoy the burn he feels from it, it grounds him. This grounds him and if anyone found out it’d end with him being admitted against his will, probably. Mycroft would provide a private centre with absolute confidentiality to deal with him once. It isn’t worth upsetting his parents with it, not when they’re already so worried about himself and John enough. They were easily kept away by a few texts on the very odd occasion. More than he usually sends regularly. 

Sherlock let himself lay in the bath until there were no more tears and the blood had begun to dry up. He expected the dizziness when he stood although it made it no easier when it hit him and he had to grab the walls to steady himself before he could step out. The mess was something he could deal with later, he needed to get into the shower and then maybe he could fall asleep. He felt drained, mentally and physically. It’s too early to go to sleep but he’s going to do it anyway, take it whenever he can get it because the nights have been long and restless with everything going on. With no cases he can let himself give into his bodily functions, sleep at odd times and eat when he could be bothered making food. Stepping into the shower felt good and he forgot about everything else as he enjoyed the pain. 

  
  
  


-

  
  


Waking up from his sleep was painful and he wasn’t sure what time or day it was, just that his chest hurt and his head hurt. His room was dark, due to his expensive black out curtains that he appreciated in moments like this. Turning on his phone screen forced him to squint his eyes at the brightness, unsurprised that it was half past after three in the morning. Going back to sleep didn’t feel like a reasonable option, so he forced himself up. The protest from his chest was different than when he’d cut in other places, it was more intense when he stood up and twisted his body in different ways. He had managed to bandage them before laying down, although a little sloppier than usual, which meant he didn’t have to worry about them bleeding through any shirts. John won’t be home for a few days, most likely, meaning his body has a few days to heal. Hopefully now that there’s more than usual and the recovery is more intense it’ll help keep the need for more at bay. Sherlock doesn’t know if it’ll help at all, honestly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I keep the John/Sherlock thing open, so you can interpret it as family feelings or gay feelings or just make it gay.........


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I can't leave Sherlock how he was, it's going to have to get worse before it can get better.

Cleaning the bathroom was hard with such fresh marks on his side but the pain made him scrub harder and longer, determined to make this room spotless and sterile for the next time he’s in here with his secret wooden box. He’s getting sloppy with it and he should be worried, yet he isn’t. The pain has kept him grounded and he feels more rational than last night - that’s for sure. He  _ cried  _ last night, for fucks sake, shame burning through him at how weak he must’ve looked if someone had walked in. The great Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, trying to survive through life by cutting into his own flesh. It was almost laughable, yet here he was, gritting his teeth against the pain as he scrubbed at the bath, the foam turning pink as he worked at the pain stains from earlier. 

He was taking notes, in the back of his head, about how the different location of the cuts affected his movements and the pain was more intense than his arm. It was almost six in the morning when he’d finished cleaning the room. Two and a half hours of cleaning left the room smelling like bleach while the tiles shined brightly at him. It was time to change the bandages after a shower, he’d realised half way through that blood was beginning to soak through the dressing but he pushed on tidying up, unwilling to look at the wounds yet and enjoying the torment he was putting his body through. Peeling off the dressing showed how red and angry the cuts were, having been rubbed up against the dressing all day. He slowly, and very gently, reached to run his fingers across some of them. It stung if he pressed down a little, which he did out of curiosity. For so long he's convinced himself he’s a machine, a robot, an emotionless being who wasn’t human, couldn’t possibly be. This is proof that he is, isn’t it? Bleeding, just like every other person. 

It was all he could think about while he stood under the shower, hot water cleaning the cuts while stinging the whole time. His mind goes back to how it’d feel to cut while he’s high on morphine or heroin, something he’s never done before but ever since the thought popped into his head it’s been hard to push it out. The thought of getting high again chews away at him while he’s trying to wash himself, trying and failing to pull his mind away from the slippery slope he’s sliding down. It feels inevitable. In one of his bedside drawers there’s a burner phone, a connection to dealers and his homeless network that only he knows about. If he uses his own phone, Mycroft would be here as soon as possible and that’s a stress he doesn’t need. He’s perfectly capable of getting drugs to the flat without raising alarms. Before he’s even turned off the water he knows there  _ will  _ be drugs in the flat within the next half an hour. 

  
  


-

  
  


There’s a vial and a bag of powder in front of him on the bed, next to his wooden box from the bathroom. Morphine, heroin, needles and razors. He should feel guilty, there should be some part of him that tries to stop himself but that voice quietened down real fast. Now it’s all laid out in front of him and he feels overwhelmed. There will be so many people upset by this, his choices, but it isn’t the first time he’s chosen himself over them either. Probably won’t be the last time. It’ll erase the guilt he feels is suffocating him, clawing at his throat and chest endlessly as he tries and fails to live with what he’s done. He’s going to go with the morphine first, which he prepares easily. Almost second nature to him now after all this time, his belt wrapped tightly around his arm as a makeshift tourniquet as he preps his needle for use. Finding veins are hard after so many years of heavy drug use but takes his time finding somewhere safe to inject. Once it’s done he lets himself lay back on his bed and he fumbles with his belt, feeling his body relax with the effects of the drug hitting him almost instantly. 

For a while, he stares at the roof. He feels like he slips in and out of consciousness, eyes rolling back when it feels like too much. Curled onto his side he looks at the illicit substances on his bed. Bad habits, he knows, yet who cares? Who does he have left to care? It doesn’t matter anymore and he can’t bear the sad thoughts so he ungracefully pushes it off his bed and onto the flood, the wooden box landing with a muted thud as it hits the carpet. If he knew where his phone was he’d try to call John, he wanted to hear his voice, know he was better now he was away from Sherlock, it would break him yet comfort him to know he’s doing better than when he was here last. It hurts to see John so full of anger - especially when caused by him. Instead of obsessing over his flatmate while he’s this high he tries to get up and off of his bed. 

It takes him time to get there but soon he’s up on his feed, slightly rocking as the room feels so unsteady around him. He walks out of his room, hand running against the hallway wall to keep him somewhat balanced. The last time he’d taken drugs was on the plane, the last time he thought he’d see the happy couple. Talking to John on the tarmac was only so easy because he had a stash in his pocket he was ready to take the second he sat down. Having the comfort of an escape within reach made the emotional goodbyes easier, manageable. Right now it feels like the drugs are making his emotions worse, so he picks up his violin off the table and throws himself down on the couch, instrument clutched to his chest and he focuses on strumming the strings and the vibrations he can feel when he does it. It’s relaxing and he lets himself lay there until he can close his eyes and not see Mary behind his eyelids. 

  
  


-

  
  


He awoke to a groan and someone talking to him. It took him a few seconds to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. “Sherlock, you cannot sleep on the couch! You’re a grown man this is no good for you back, silly man,” Mrs. Hudson was chastising him and his head and body hurt, he didn’t know what time it was or how long he’d been on the couch in the first place. Slowly he pulled himself upright, head throbbing with his every move. “I brought you a tray of biscuits and tea, you have to eat something, dear.” Her tone softened at this and he knew he must look like such a sad case. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll try and eat some of it. I’d appreciate being left alone for the foreseeable future, if you don’t mind, please.” He tried to pass off his rough and slightly slurred voice on the tiredness from having been woken up. It’d work, he relied on that, and she’d leave him in peace. She fussed over him for a few more moments before walking back out the door she came from with one last pitiful look at him before she closed the door. It was hard not to feel the love she was trying to spread to him yet it didn’t last once she was out of the room. He was feeling terribly out of it, unaware of what time it was currently left him feeling disorientated. The burner phone was in his robe pocket which he doesn’t remember putting on, the small clock on the phone reading quarter past two. It was the afternoon then. Today was Sunday, no, Monday? Monday. He’d been asleep for god knows how long and his back wasn’t happy at him for choosing the couch. It was time for another dose, he couldn’t help but think. 


	4. Chapter 4

Time blurs together after he starts using again. The exhaustion he feels is bone deep, hurts when he wakes up and sends him straight back to the terrible habits fuelling him as soon as he feels his body can handle it. As Sherlock entered the third day without John in the flat he spent the morning sorting out pill’s he could take before he moved on to his favourite seven percent solution. He wanted to be out of it all the time, because when he wasn’t that meant he was thinking and thinking led to the saddest thoughts that he could never pull himself out of. He spent his days confined in his bedroom mainly, the delivery of drugs from different homeless network contacts throughout the night were going unnoticed, for now, by Mycroft. He wondered how long until his brother caught on to what he was doing. Or maybe he had already. He didn’t care because he was still able to get high, to shut his mind off and spend his days doing nothing except watching the hours go by.

It’s very early in the morning on the fifth day since John’s been gone when he gives in to the urge again. There’s a mix of drugs in his system right now, morphine wasn’t enough anymore, and he hasn't spent more than a few hours at best sober since there have been drugs in his flat again. It’s dark in his bathroom as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the two razors next to him. This has to be more than dangerous, letting himself hurt himself when he’s this out of it, yet here’s a burning curiosity to see how it feels to do this when he’s like this though. He can’t deny himself - self control is impossible when it’s something he loves.

Stripped down to his boxers, he’s sitting in the tub now. The razor feels so light in his hand as he picks it up, movements slow and slightly unsteady. This time he’ll try his thigh, giving his chest more time to recover without being disrupted by fresh cuts. That area proved to be a tricky spot - more painful and enjoyable, yes, yet movements were hindered more than other areas he’s tried before. There was a certain desire to find the sweet spot, somewhere he can hide it easily without limiting himself physically to avoid observant onlookers' concerns and probing questions. He can admit to the drugs and not have anyone search him or his body, meaning he can get away with keeping this his secret if it ever came down to it.

This was his favourite place to cut, he knew it instantly, and it made him drag the razor across his skin without thinking, pushing down with the razor accidentally. The pain was dulled down and it was a satisfying and unusual sensation rather than the sharp sting he usually felt. Watching the blood well and being to pour out at a slightly faster rate than usual was mesmerising. He’d find himself staring at the line of cuts forming down his thigh, each one bleeding and a few of them deeper than he’d ever gone. He wasn’t going to need stitches, he could make sure it healed properly when he wasn’t so messed up. All he could do right now was tip his head back against the wall. His head felt too heavy for him to hold up. Everything was blurred slightly and maybe he was crying or maybe he was going to pass out, he wasn’t quite sure anymore. In this moment all he wanted was for things to go back to how they used to be. It was all he could think as he passed out, high and bleeding in his bathtub. 

-

He awoke to a slamming door. There was blood everywhere, Sherlock was almost naked in the tub and someone was in the house  _ he had to do something,  _ even if he felt barely conscious. “Sherlock! Why aren’t you answering your phone?!” Dread filled Sherlock suddenly at the sound of John’s voice and he was pushing himself upright, ungracefully trying to get himself out of the bath and into a robe, something he could cover himself up with before the other man burst through his door and discovered him like this. Covered in mostly dried blood and an array of old and new cuts all over his body. 

It was too late, though. The door was opening before Sherlock had fully gotten up and he was dying inside. In his sloppiness he’d let himself lose track of time and his surroundings like an idiot. He’d pushed his body too far and it had cost him now, it was coming crashing down all around him because he got too deep into it all. To set on destroying himself instead of sticking to his precise routine that had kept things manageable and in his control. Now, John was going to see how truly  _ ugly  _ he was and how he was trying his best to work through his guilt. He deserved this for what he’d done to everyone. All he can do is pull his boxers down in a pathetic attempt to cover up his injured thigh. 

“Sherlock? Greg said you wer- oh my fucking  _ god,  _ oh my-” John stopped dead in his track as the bathroom door swings open slowly to reveal a messy scene. Sherlock knows it looks terrible, he’s half covered in blood and there’s a bloodied razor sitting on the edge of the tub. It’s clear the moment his room mates eyes spot it and it’s impossible to look at John’s face now, which is twisting into anger and sadness all at once. It’s too much for the detective, his heart is racing and he can’t fucking think. He’s shutting down. “Sherlock..I want you to tell me what’s going on here. Sit on the toilet. Now, before you fall over.” 

He does as he's told, dropping onto the toilet lid and staring at his hands, which were holding his underwear down so his thigh wasn’t overly exposed. It was taking him a second to think about what to say. John moved further into the room so he could access the first aid kit. He’s clearly gone into doctor mode, surveying his patient and the scene in front of him before he proceeds to get what he reckons he’ll use out. “I’ll need to see the full extent of the damage, Sherlock. I know you don’t want to, but I have to help you. They can’t go left like this.” His tone is gentle with his friend, he’s trying to comfort Sherlock and he wishes he could say it did comfort him. 

None of this was comforting. He was mortified to have been caught like this. His secret exposed. It took a moment for him to move his hands and let John pull up the clothes but once he did he heard the sharp intake of breath from his doctor when it was all on display. Sherlock avoided looking at his thigh or his doctor. He wished he was able to disappear into the floor at this point, hide in a run down den somewhere and get so high he’ll forget this even happened. “I’ve been trying to.. Cope. With everything going on.” His voice broke the silence that had settled between them uneasily. 

“This is you coping? Jesus, Sherlock. Did you make a list, then?” He wasn’t trying to shame Sherlock, but he knew that the man across from him wasn’t happy with him or his choices. He nodded, knowing there was a list that had grown since he first left the house on his bedside table. John didn’t need to see this one. 

Once he was bandaged up he would have to face the music, then. Return to rehab. Mycroft won’t be surprised. “I will give it to Mycroft when he gets here. I don’t need you to judge me further.” He was bitter, at himself, yet it was leaking into his tone without his permission anyway. His fucked up behaviour was going to wreck hell on his life now and there was no one to blame except himself. He knew this. 

“I’m not here to judge you, Sherlock. I thought I was here to be your friend. Support you through tough times, not to sit by and let you destroy yourself like this.” John was talking stern and low, his anger at the situation was also obvious in his own tone when he talked to Sherlock. 

“Calling us friends is surely a stretch, John. You can hardly look at me some days! Don’t say you’re here to support me  _ when you can’t bear to be around me!  _ I do this because I deserve this, we both know I do. I made you hate me. I broke my vow. I made you so sad.” Sherlock was crying as he said the last bit, eyes red-rimmed and watery as he stared at the sink next to him. There was silence after his outburst. John finished tending the last of the cuts on his thighs with misty eyes.

When Sherlock managed to look at John who was staring at him while sitting on the floor across from him, John sighed. “I haven been coping with this as well as I thought and I’m sorry. You deserve so much better from me. I am truly sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted you to spiral out of control like this. I never wanted you to hurt yourself because of all this.” He sounds broken and it hurts Sherlock that he caused that. He’s caused all of this. “I’m going to go and call Mycroft. You can give him the list and we can go from there. Whatever happens though, Sherlock, I’ll be right by your side. 

He wants to believe those words yet he also wants to take all the pills that are somewhere on his bed before his brother gets here. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, alone, waiting for his brother to arrive. John thought he had taken the remainder of the drugs from inside his bedroom. He thought that, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. That was wrong of Sherlock, he knows, yet he doesn’t care right now. It was a miracle John had missed it in his search of his bedroom. The bathroom, on the other hand, wasn’t as thoroughly searched. His doctor had thought there was nothing except the razors in there, so he hadn’t bothered to be as meticulous. His pants had been left under his shirt and robe, which John had left after checking the robe’s pockets. In the back pocket of his pants was a couple of pills, probably morphine, and he hadn’t hesitated before he put them in his mouth and swallowed them dry. He was going down anyway. It would help get him through the next little while anyway. 

John breaks his thoughts when he walks back into his room with tea and some toast with jam on a tray. He doesn’t feel hungry, not in the slightest, but he makes himself pick up a piece and take a bite before putting it back down. It doesn’t taste like anything to him right now. He can’t bring himself to look John in the eyes, either. Even as he sits down next to Sherlock on the best, hand resting in between the detective's shoulder blades. It’s comforting, feeling his presence, yet not being overwhelmed by it. It’s a little bit of peace before his brother takes one look at him, reads the list, tells John he’s high as a kite and it falls apart. For a while he had convinced himself he wouldn’t get caught and he really could have kept it all a secret had he not gotten so lazy. He’d put his trust that John’s anger would last because he had every right to be angry, so he’d let himself go too far. He took too much in an attempt to stop feeling. Cut himself off from his emotions and try to go into hibernation, really. He’d done nothing except lay around in bed, attempt to write music and read old cases with no brain power to solve them. If he hadn’t let himself cut so deep, maybe he would’ve been in bed and only the drugs would’ve been found out. 

It’s hard to listen to keep up with what John’s saying right now. There’s too much going on in his head. “Don’t you want any of your tea, Sherlock? You can look at me, you know.” John’s speaking softly to him, like he’s about to break and Sherlock feels so bad for putting this added stress on John. He looks out the window while he thinks of what to say.

“I don’t feel like I can. No one was meant to find out about this and - and you found out in the worst way possible. I want to disappear right now, John. All I seem to do is cause more harm than good.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the doctor was already shaking his head as Sherlock talked, irritating the detective. “Stop it, John. Don’t act like you aren’t surprised that I can do this to myself. You should be disgusted by it, by me.” There’s a hurt in his voice that he can’t hide and he’s embarrassed by being this honest, even though he knows John needs to hear it. There’s a silence that stretches between them. It’s only when they both hear the door downstairs alert them to Mycroft’s presence that he forces himself to look at John’s face. “I’m broken, John. I’ve done terrible things. I need to suffer the consequences of it all.” 

John stares at Sherlock, truly stares and studies the face of the man he once knew, yet feels worlds away from right now. He can feel his eyes take in every detail that he can, soaking up the moment before he’s pulled out of the room by his brother’s knocking on the front door. When John’s out the room, Sherlock breathes deeply. He tries to calm and compose himself. There’s footsteps coming down the hallway and there isn’t much time left to feel like he’s put together again. He isn’t sure he will ever be put together like he was before all of this again. Folded neatly inside his hands in a list, for Mycroft. Even if he feels like he hates the older man he can’t help but keep up this tradition, for his brother’s sake, so he knows the extent of the damage done. It will tell him how far he’s fallen off the deep time and his hand tightens around it when he sees his brother appear in the doorway. 

Nothing is said while they look at each other, Mycroft’s eyes filled with such an intense sadness it makes Sherlock want to curl in on himself. He holds out his palm, the list of substances sitting in it as a silent offering. “This is worse than I thought. Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs, one hand coming to rest on his younger brother’s shoulder and Sherlock’s eyes started to water. He was sad and angry, yes, but embarrassed also. The morphine was kicking in and he wanted to lay down. He felt so drained. “I don’t want to have this conversation while you’re high.” 

“I confiscated the last of his stash, Mycroft. It’s all gone now. He does need a rest before we start to get into all of this. He lost a lot of blood.” John has his doctor voice on. Maybe it’s easier to view him as the patient for now. Separate from the emotional side of their relationship for now. 

“By the look on his face right now, John, you didn’t catch all of it. Do you want to tell him, Sherlock, or should I?” Mycroft’s tone was hard, his feelings towards Sherlock habit had always been made clear when they had to discuss it. 

He wasn’t quite sure he could talk, yet he had to. “There were four pills in the back pocket of my pants. I took them. I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, rushed out as quick as he could while he stared at his hands. It was too much, this was too much already and he wants to skip to the part where they ship him off to rehab and he comes back sober and  _ fixed,  _ as Mycroft likes to think. 

“Jesus. Okay. Is there anything else hidden away somewhere, Sherlock?” John is hurt, clearly, and Sherlock feels terrible. If he wasn’t so fucking selfish things would be different. He shakes his head, knowing he can’t lie with Mycroft in the room. There isn’t anything else left, though. He knows there isn’t. His body will be aching for more soon. “You’re going to sleep this off. When you wake up, there’s things we have to talk about.” there was no room for argument with John and he didn’t even bother. He waited until everyone had left his room before he sunk back onto his bed. 

  
  
  


-

  
  


It was dark when he woke up. He felt like he feeded to stick his head out of a window. Instead, he forced himself up and into the bathroom. It hasn't been cleaned yet, only the dangerous and illegal objects have been taken out. Sherlock found himself looking at the bath. The blood had darkened as it dried, leaving the bath looking gruesome and far worse than he remembered it. He forced himself to look away from it and turn on the taps, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to make himself feel more human again. Facing his reflection wasn’t an enjoyable experience. His eyes were sunken in, cheekbones more defined than he’s seen in a while. He needed a shave, too. There was stubble but he didn’t care enough to shave it now. Before he can think about going out to face the music, he dries his face on a clean towel and runs his hands through his hair. It doesn’t stop him from looking like a man who has officially gone insane. 

The hallway is dark, although he can hear the television when he opens his door. At the end of the hallway is Mycroft, sitting on the couch, watching a baking show. If it was any other circumstance he’d make a smart remark. His brother looks at him and there’s no guard up this time. He looks like he’s aged from the stress of the situation. Tired eyes stare at him, his lips turned downwards as he gestures for Sherlock to sit across from him in his armchair. Slowly he walks towards his chair, uncertainty eating away at him inside. He can’t tell what is about to happen and it worries him. His brother is impossible to read when he wants to be. Mycroft remains silent until he’s comfortable in his chair. 

“Little brother. This has to stop. I’m going to end up losing you to this soon and I cannot let that happen. Please, enough. I know about the self-harming.” Mycroft's eyes softened at this, trying to convince his brother not to retract into himself when he revealed that he knew. Sherlock thought nobody knew, he’d kept it hidden so well. He had calculated every cut, mostly, and if he hadn’t he’d learned how to hide them from worrisome eyes. Apparently not. “I never told you I knew because I saw how hard you tried to keep it a secret, how desperate you were for no one to find out. Once you had stopped, I let my concerns about it go for a while. I should have seen the signs again. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry you’re in pain. What Mary did - she did for you. She would be appalled at John’s behaviour and I know I am too. You both need to get help or I don’t think you’ll survive or much longer.” 

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to his brother. They sat together, in the dark, with the television forgotten. It was quiet background noise while he sat and took in everything that was happening. How it all turned from everyday life to..this. Two unfeeling and uncaring brothers sharing their private and rarely ever seen emotions together. Lately they’ve found themselves sharing these moments more often than ever before. “I.. I feel like I need to be punished for it, Mycroft. I destroyed his whole world. You and I, we won’t ever have that, but he had it and I took it from him. I deserve everything I do to myself and I honestly thought nobody would ever find out about it. I thought I was so clever.” Sherlock laughs and it sounds broken, resigned. “It makes everything easier to deal with. Yet another thing wrong with me, isn’t it? Are you going to tell mother and father? Or is it just shipping me off to another rehab facility?” There was a bitterness he couldn’t help in his voice and he watched Mycroft recoil at his tone. 

“I will not be telling mother and father. I will not be sending you off to rehab. We’re doing this here, at home. John has convinced me to..change the way we've been handling this. He wants you to detox here. He’s your doctor, he knows you don’t like hospitals and he’s managed to convince me it will be different this time. We will not leave this flat, Sherlock, until you are sober. John, in turn for doing this, will be going to therapy. He will go for often, take whatever medication they prescribe and go to anger management classes. Enough is enough, brother. We need this to stop.” 

Sherlock wasn’t expecting that response and level of commitment from his brother. He nodded, not trusting his mouth to respond for him. Part of him didn’t want to go through detox, still wanted to use until he couldn’t feel anything again. That was the easy way out of this. Eventually he would overdose and nobody would be surprised, although maybe they’ll still mourn the second time around. Mycroft nodded back at him and they sat together while they waited for John to get up, Sherlock choosing to lay down on the couch, his body already wondering when the next high would come. It was going to be a long few days, yet he almost feels hopeful walking into it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we go. how do we feel about it? let me know!   
> I'm proud of it. I love Sherlock. I love angsty Sherlock.   
> I wanted there to be that brotherly love moment, I feel like Mycroft has always had it in him.   
> stay safe out there

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to leave this as a oneshot. If anyone really likes it, maybe we'll continue on. Maybe.  
> No promises.  
> I hope you do like it, though! Love some angsty Sherlock.


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